Alamein

by Iain Gale

  ‘Shouldn’t we use the machine-gun, Lieutenant?’

  Ringler looked into the desert and saw what he meant and was shocked. There beside the shattered tanks were several small groups of wounded men, some of them obviously burnt. He thought for a moment then answered: ‘No.’

  He wondered if he had done right and was still unsure as he thought of Feuerkogel, of Mahnke and of poor Monier. Then he watched the English die in the sand as their tanks pulled back and thought how they could so easily have been him and his men. And it sent a chill down his back, even in the searing heat of the bloody afternoon.

  FOURTEEN

  Noon Ruweisat Edge Miller

  The Regimental Aid Post had been secured and a new HQ set up. Miller was still pondering his actions of the previous few hours, unable to comprehend the fact that he had taken lives so easily. They had buried Sergeant Bowie behind the dressing-station with six other dead from the battle. According to the colonel the attack had been a success. The three forward companies of New Zealanders had secured their position shortly after 3.30 a.m. They had dug in mortars and two two-pounders along the ridge and the radio set had finally been repaired. Thomas came over to where Miller was sitting on a rock, staring into the sand. ‘That was a brave thing you did out there, Josh.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘You damn well know it was. If you hadn’t done what you did more of those guys would have died.’

  ‘Maybe. Doesn’t seem very brave. Killing your fellow men.’

  Thomas put a hand on Miller’s shoulder: ‘Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s war.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Now we drive back to the advanced dressing-station.’

  ‘Back through the minefield?’

  ‘There’s no other way that I know.’

  Three of the ambulances having already returned to the dressing-station they loaded up the remaining two with the wounded, including McGinty whose wound they had dressed and Bigelow who wore his bandage with pride on his scarred buttocks, then started off back the way they had come, Miller and Turk in one of the ambulances, Thomas in the other. There were still more tanks on the track now and several times there was a loud rasping noise as Miller felt his ambulance rake against the side of one of them. The ground was rough and as they bumped along not even the advanced suspension of the Dodge prevented the wounded from groaning. As they bounced over a particularly bad rock, McGinty yelled from the back: ‘For Chrissake, Josh, be careful, there’s guys in pain back here. Me included.’

  By the time they got to 6th ADS it was full daylight. The place was transformed from the way they had left it into a scene of frantic activity. Everywhere there were ambulances and trucks filled with wounded. Stretcher-bearers and medics and drivers were working as fast as they could to get the men unloaded and send the vehicles back to the front to pick up more. Miller stopped the Dodge and got out. The wounded were lying everywhere. The reception tents were full to bursting and there were men up against the sides of the Egyptian mudbrick buildings, in their doorways, in the filthy alleyways between.

  Turk shook his head: ‘Jesus! Whose in charge here? Looks like the showers after a New York Giants game.’

  Thomas appeared from his ambulance: ‘Guess we need to find the head guy and get these poor bastards unloaded.’

  They picked their way through the stretchers and eventually reached an office. Inside a middle-aged man with a moustache and wearing a peaked cap was seated at a table. A major in the Medical Corps. Thomas approached him and was careful to salute before he spoke: ‘Major. Lieutenant Thomas, sir. American Field Service. We’ve two ambulances full of wounded. Where would you like them?’

  The man looked up and Miller could see from his face that he had not slept for some time. Perhaps days. He managed a smile and spoke: ‘Ah. Yes, Lieutenant. Well, as you can see, space is at something of a premium. I would suggest that you plonk them down anywhere you can find for now. My chaps’ll see to them before long.’ He looked back down at his paperwork. Evidently their interview was at an end. Thomas looked at Miller and shrugged. Together they left the office and helped the other drivers to unload the stretchers.

  McGinty called over to them: ‘Hey you guys, hey Lieutenant. Where am I goin’?’

  Turk answered: ‘Not home, you dumb Mick. You’re not hit that bad, you son of a bitch.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you wish it was you, Turkey boy? Could be arranged.’

  Thomas waved them down: ‘Leave him, Mack. Turk, he’ll be back with us soon enough. You’re going back to Gharbaniyat, past El Hammam. Remember?’

  Miller looked around the dressing-station and did a quick head count. There must be around eight hundred men here, he thought. Away from where the new arrivals lay it seemed better organized, with three rows of seven or eight EPIP tents forming the three wards. The operating theatres seemed to be at the end of the rows in separate tents and electrical generators had been set up outside to supply power.

  He turned to McGinty. ‘You’ll be in good hands here for now, Joe. See you soon. Be sure and get better.’ He walked over to the ambulances, which now stood empty, and found Thomas: ‘Where to now, sir?’

  ‘Back to the front, I reckon. To the New Zealand RAP. Those are our orders. We’d better see how those Kiwi boys are getting on.’

  They were just preparing to set off when an English captain walked up to Thomas. He was wearing an adapted version of officer’s battledress with a spotted silk scarf tucked into his shirt collar and a ‘fore-and-aft’ cavalry forage cap with a blue flash, worn at a rakish angle. ‘I say, you chaps American?’

  ‘Sure are, sir. American Field Service ambulance corps.’

  ‘Thing is I’m here trying to find an empty blood wagon.’ He put out his hand to Thomas who shook it. ‘Sorry, Webster, Captain, Scots Greys. Like a fag?’ He produced a silver cigarette case from his inside pocket and flipped it open to reveal a row of oval Turkish cigarettes. All of them took one with a murmur of thanks and after the click of their Zippos the captain took a long puff, blew a cloud of smoke and began again. ‘Thing is, we’ve had a bit of a flap down the line. Several tanks brewed up and we’ve got casualties lying out in the sun. Don’t suppose you could spare one of your trucks and a couple of chaps to give us a hand. Get the men back here?’

  Thomas looked at Miller: ‘Josh, Turk? What d’you say?’

  Miller shrugged: ‘It’s got to be better than the minefield, sir.’

  Turk nodded. Thomas spoke: ‘Why don’t you go then? Give the captain here a hand. See if you can help his “chaps”. I’ll see you back here.’ He turned to the captain: ‘How far is it, sir?’

  ‘Oh, no more than an hour’s drive.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you guys back here at three this afternoon. Don’t be late, Josh.’

  Miller turned to the captain: ‘We’re all yours, sir. Lead on.’

  It took them a little over an hour to reach the place. They had been driving due south and the sun beat down on the ambulance and the captain’s open jeep with its usual relentless heat. But Miller was thankful to be away from the minefield. He was conscious that the sounds of battle were on his right yet the captain had taken them away from the front and they had travelled down Sydney Road and then various extensions of it to find their destination. Miller was starting to wonder how much further it might be when they drove around a sand dune and up a ridge. Miller gasped. There in a dip below them were laid out line after line of tanks. There must have been thirty of them, mostly the new Shermans and Grants. American tanks. He pulled up and he and Turk jumped down from the Dodge. Turk whistled.

  Captain Webster spoke: ‘Impressive isn’t it? Shouldn’t care to be a Jerry right now. That’s only about half of Fourth Armoured Brigade. Should have seen the dummy army that Monty cooked up though. Now that really was impressive. All made of balsa and paper though. Some magician did it all. Damn clever if you ask me and it certainly fooled Jerry. Thought we were in strength in all the wrong places. Bu
t this is the real thing. As you can see.’

  Miller looked on as the tank crews in their distinctive berets and forage caps busied themselves around the vehicles, fixing on strips of track over their armour plating for extra protection.

  ‘Not much further to go now. It was one of our advance squadrons that stumbled on the Jerry strongpoint. We’ll just skirt the brigade and go up that track.’ He pointed: ‘Not far.’

  Miller and Turk climbed back into the cab and followed him slowly down the dune and on to the track. They carried on and passed an all-too-familiar sign: Achtung Minen. Turk cursed: ‘Oh wow! Another friggin’ minefield.’ They stayed dead in the centre of the track and for once did not encounter any tanks. Suddenly the captain’s jeep slowed down and then pulled over off the track.

  Miller turned to Turk: ‘I sure hope he knows what he’s doing and where he’s going ’cos I sure as heck don’t.’ But the jeep did not strike a mine and nor did Miller. The sound of gunfire was closer now and Miller and Turk could both hear the familiar and unsettling crump of mortars. Webster pulled up and Miller stopped behind him. They were in another slight dip, in the lee of a huge sand dune and Miller was suddenly aware that a dozen more tanks, Grants this time, were sharing it with them.

  Webster spoke: ‘Now the wrecks and the casualties are just around the dune about a thousand yards into no-man’s-land. Shouldn’t have happened of course. Radio failed. Lack of communication. Usual TABU.’ He looked serious: ‘I can’t pretend that this is going to be a picnic, chaps. You might get fired on.’

  Turk smiled and winked at Miller: ‘That’s OK by me, Captain. I’m kinda getting used to it.’

  ‘Good man. That’s the stuff. Now what I propose is that my driver and I go out there before you with a white flag and hope that Jerry understands our intentions. If he doesn’t then we’re all gone for six. But he knows that we’d do the same for him. Have done before. So in theory it should all be hunky-dory. Ready?’

  Miller spoke: ‘As ready as we’ll ever be I guess, sir.’

  The captain, smiling, jumped back into his jeep and grabbed something from the rear seat. A piece of bright white material attached to a stick. He looked at Miller: ‘You follow me. And pray.’

  Miller and Turk climbed back into the cab. Turk looked puzzled: ‘Did you get any of that? What the hell was that guy talking about? Fags I understand now. Cigarettes, right? And gone for six? That’s cricket, yeah? And what’s Tabu?’

  ‘Total Army Balls Up.’

  ‘Jeeze, Miller. How’d you know all that stuff?’

  ‘I listen. Just listen.’

  Together they slowly pulled out from behind the dune. As they did so the captain began to wave his white flag. For a dreadful moment Miller felt utterly exposed. He could see the burnt-out tanks now and the German position, dug into a slope about two thousand yards away from them. He waited for the machine-gun and mortar rounds to come flying towards him, wondering if this would be his last moment and how it felt to die with redhot steel ripping into your body. But nothing came. No shells, no bullets. Instead, when they had got to within 250 yards of the wrecked tanks, he saw a German climb out of the strongpoint and start off towards them. An officer by the look of him, followed by two other men. He was waving what looked like a white shirt on a stick. As they drew closer to the tanks he caught the smell. Burning human flesh. A little like roast pork. It turned his stomach. He could see a number of dark shapes on the sand. Dead presumably.

  There were others though who were still alive. They were nearing the tanks now and he could feel their heat through the windshield. He stopped the ambulance directly behind where the captain had pulled up and got out with Turk. Together they walked towards one of the wounded who was moaning in pain. Miller looked up to see what had happened to the German officer and found himself looking into his face. It wore an impassive expression and showed signs of great fatigue. He had powerful blue eyes and Miller stared at him with fascination, trying to determine what if anything made these people so different. Different enough to kill each other? The German saluted and Miller returned the gesture as the captain looked on, his hand hovering over his pistol holster. Then the German officer nodded politely, smiled and turned and he and his men walked back up the slope.

  Miller looked after them for a moment and then got back to the wounded. They brought a stretcher from the ambulance and managed to lift the soldier on to it. He thanked them feebly and the captain went over to him and gave him a cigarette. Then they hoisted him into the back of the truck and slotted him into one of the six slings. They repeated the process with three other casualties, in various states of ruination, dressing their wounds as best they could. The worst they left till last. The man was lying on his back near one of the burning tanks. He had been hit in the head by a piece of shrapnel and was also badly burned. It was hard to make out whatever else was wrong, but he was clearly in a very bad way. Miller got out a length of bandage and wound it loosely around the man’s disfigured head. With great care Turk and Miller rolled him on to the stretcher. He gave a low moan, barely audible, then sank on to the canvas. They lifted him up and placed him gently inside the truck before closing the doors.

  They walked over to the captain who was leaning against the jeep. As they neared him he stood. ‘Thank you most awfully for that. Forever in your debt. Will you see they get safely back to the ADS? I’m going to stay here with the squadron. Think we’re about to go in. Should be quite a show.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, sir,’ said Miller. ‘We’ll get them back. And I’ll make sure they get seen to in double-quick time.’

  ‘Thank you. Cheerio. Must crack on.’

  And with that he turned and drove off with his driver. Miller and Turk got back in the ambulance and turned over the engine.

  The journey back took twice the time of their outward trip and they had known that it would. With five wounded in the back, two of them critical, every rock and bump in the road was important and it took all of Miller’s driving skill to keep the Dodge as smooth as she could be. Sobered by what they had seen they did not say much to each other but sat in silence, listening to the engine, the surrounding noise of the increasingly distant battle and most of all the moaning of the wounded.

  They finally pulled into the ADS at almost 4 p.m. Miller parked up close to where they had stopped before. There was no sign of Lieutenant Thomas. He turned to Turk: ‘You wait here with the guys. I’m going to find a doctor.’

  He got out and walked over to one of the wards. Inside the welcoming coolness was countered by the stench of blood, ether and sulfanilamide. Various medical orderlies were busy about their duties and an officer in shirtsleeves, a major, was standing over one of the beds. Miller waited patiently until he had finished and then approached him: ‘Sir. Miller, sir. AFS.’ The major nodded and looked away. Miller continued: ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve just brought in a wounded man and he needs someone to see him now.’

  The doctor looked at him and Miller wondered whether he had gone too far, had perhaps contravened some British army regulation. The major spoke: ‘You aren’t English, are you? But you’re not a Kiwi either. Where are you from?’

  ‘America, sir. But that doesn’t matter. This man, sir. He’s very badly wounded.’

  ‘America. Good. Well there is a procedure, a process and all that before I see him. He has to be booked in.’

  ‘Sir, I’m not sure you understand me. The guy looks like he’s going to croak. I promised one of your captains…’

  The major looked at him: ‘All right, old chap. I’ll take a look at him. Bring him in here will you.’ He pointed to a makeshift bed by one of the tent walls. ‘You can put him down there.’

  Miller ran back to the ambulance and he and Turk removed the stretcher and carried the wounded man into the tent, placing him where the major had indicated. The officer walked over to them with another doctor and motioned them away. Miller and Turk walked to the door. For some reason which he could not fathom, Mi
ller felt somehow attached to the wounded man and was desperate to hear the prognosis. As they waited at the tent door, the major looked towards them and then back to the soldier. All the time he was speaking to the other doctor. At last he motioned to Miller to come over. ‘He’s pretty badly cut about. Would you mind staying with him for a few moments? I just have to consult with another colleague. Sorry, my name’s Wilson, Major RAMC. You did well to bring him here. Shan’t be a tick.’

  Miller stood at the edge of the bed and looked at the man. He was more horribly wounded than he had remembered. Part of his face had been blown away, but he was still alive. He stared at Miller and was trying to speak but only a thin, bloody membrane remained where his mouth had been. Whenever he tried to talk the air from his lungs threw up a thin spray of fluid and blood.

  ‘All right, friend. You’ll be OK.’

  The man’s head moved and Miller knew that he could hear.

  Major Wilson came back into the tent accompanied by another officer. They walked across to Miller. Wilson looked down at the man and said nothing. He bent over and began to examine his wounds and then straightened up. Miller looked at him and although he still said nothing it was clear enough what was in his mind. He turned to the captain at his side and nodded. Miller asked: ‘Are you going to operate?’

  Still Wilson and the captain said nothing to him, but moved away in conversation, so that Miller and the wounded man could not hear. Then they came back and Wilson took Miller aside: ‘I’m sorry. It’s really of no use. His left arm’s gone. Burnt to a cinder. His left leg below his knee is a torn mess. His stomach is full of holes. His lungs must be badly damaged too from the burning. You’ve seen his face. Rather what was his face. Poor devil. He really should not have lived. God knows how he survived this long. Is he one of your drivers?’